Not a Pretty Picture
by Halcris
Summary: Doyle helps out with one minor crisis, but then becomes involved in something far more serious.


**Not a Pretty Picture.**

Bodie and Doyle tapped on their boss's office door and entered, ready to receive their instructions for their next assignment.

Cowley almost threw down the police report he had been reading, with a look of disgust. Meeting the curious looks of his top team, he deigned to explain. "Another Baxter causing trouble," he said. "One, Colin Baxter, son of Bill Baxter, a 17 year old, caught stealing cars."

"Not surprised," commented Bodie.

As far as C.I.5 were concerned, the whole family of Baxter's were a thoroughly bad lot. Father had been a high-class fence and dealer, clever enough at covering his tracks, to make it very difficult to find proof of what he was up to. He'd finally been caught and convicted when he was 'grassed up' by a resentful rival. He'd gone to prison and died there, involved in a vicious brawl with another inmate. Mother, who'd been a prostitute in her younger days, had tried to continue his line of business, but failed miserably. After 6 months, she'd quit and run off with an Italian 10 years younger than herself, and was believed to be 'living it up' in Venice. The three sons she had left behind had all been in trouble with the police. The two eldest, Bill and Guy, had done time, one for car-theft and the other for G.B.H. Sam, the youngest , ran a book-makers, legitimate on the surface, but under suspicion for being involved in dodgy syndicate deals and race-fixing.

Guy and Bill ran a large scrap-merchant and car-breakers yard, again seemingly 'legit'. But the police knew very well that many a car that would have given their forensic teams a 'field day', disappeared without trace into Bill's favourite toy, a very large car-crushing machine.

"So it looks as if the next Baxter generation is also into car crime," Cowley commented. Then he put it out of his mind.

"Still, it's all police business. Doesn't concern us at the moment. So let's get on with something that does."

As he turned to pick up one of the other folders on his desk, there was an interruption. There was a knock on the door and Murphy entered. Cowley knew very well that Murphy would not have disturbed him, unless he considered the matter to be of importance. So he controlled his impatience.

"What is it, Murphy ?," he asked.

"There's an Inspector Ross from the Met, very anxious to speak to you, sir," replied Murphy.

"On the phone ?," queried Cowley.

"No, sir," Murphy answered, "He's here, sir, outside the door."

"Very well, show him in," said Cowley.

The man who was shown in was stockily-built, of average height, with a calm assured manner. As he entered, he spotted Doyle standing by the desk, and his eyes lit up. There was instant mutual recognition. Doyle had served under the inspector for 15 months during his police days, and had respect for this sensible dependable officer.

"Inspector Ross," Cowley acknowledged. "What can we do for you ?."

The man facing him came straight to the point. "I want to ask a favour, sir," he began. "I would like to borrow Doyle for an hour or so."

Cowley immediately bristled at this strange request. "I do not lend out my men, Inspector," he said coldly.

"Sir," said Ross earnestly, "If I might be allowed to explain the rather special circumstances ?"

Cowley relented. The man before him seemed the solid reliable type that formed the backbone of the Metropolitan Police.

"Very well," he said, and gestured for the two listening agents to draw up chairs for them all.

When they were all settled, the inspector began his story. "Sir, I expect you read, in last week's police report, of the murder of one Julio Rocco ?"

"Yes," responded Cowley, "A rather nasty little drugs dealer, I believe."

"That's right," said Ross, a little surprised to find that this busy man still had time to keep abreast of such details, "We think it was a 'gang' affair. He wasn't liked even among his own kind, and we've a good idea who is probably to blame. The thing is, he was shot, but the weapon used was not found on the scene. But we now think it has turned up."

"So what's the problem ?," interrupted Bodie.

"It's where it has surfaced," said Ross, and went on to explain. "It was evidently found somewhere," he said, "but by Joey Flinton."

"Ah," exclaimed Doyle, suddenly understanding, and took up the story. "I know Joey very well," he said, "and his father, Dave, is a very useful informant for me."

Cowley looked puzzled. So, a boy had found a gun which the police suspected might be the murder weapon. Where was the problem, and why did Ross want help from Doyle ?

But it became clearer as Doyle explained further. "Joey is severely handicapped. He's a big strong lad, though not in the least violent. But he has the mentality of a small child, and has to be handled carefully to help him understand things."

"That's it," interrupted Ross, "He's taken a fancy to what he's found, and won't give it up, not even to his father."

"I still don't see how that involves Doyle," queried Cowley, and the inspector hurried to explain. "Doyle used to help at a boys club, and he was so good with Joey. He talked to him and listened, which no-one else had the patience to do. According to his father, Joey absolutely idolises him."

"I see him quite often," put in Doyle, "when I go to see Dan."

"I see," said Cowley, as the situation became clearer to him, "and so you think he might give it up to Doyle ?"

"Yes, sir," replied Ross. "We suspect it's still loaded. So I daren't risk trying to take it by force, and if I call in armed police they are liable to kill him, which he doesn't deserve."

"It would be a shame if that happened," said Doyle quickly. "I'd really like to go, sir, and see if I can help."

Now he knew the facts, Cowley considered the situation. "Very well," he said at last. "But be very careful – don't get shot."

"I'm sure he wouldn't harm me," said Doyle.

Bodie put his oar in. "He won't get the chance," he declared, "for I'm coming to see that he doesn't."

Cowley surveyed the pair of them, and knew he would have trouble if he refused to allow them to do this. So he waved them off with the best grace he could muster.

Doyle and Bodie followed the inspector down to his car, where his driver was waiting. They all got in and were driven off, a blue flashing light making their journey as swift and unhindered as possible. This was switched off as they neared the house where the Flintons lived.

Joey's father met them at the door and ushered them in. "He's up in his bedroom," he told them. "I thought it best to let him sit quietly there looking at his 'pretty', rather than pushing too hard to get it off him." They moved quietly upstairs to the landing outside the boy's room.

"Let me go in alone," asked Doyle, "We don't want to startle him."

"All right," agreed Bodie, "But I'll be right here, in the doorway, watching, and I'll act if I think you're in danger."

"I don't think he'd harm me," repeated Doyle.

He tapped on the door, opened it and entered. When Joey saw who it was, his eyes lit up and he smiled.

"Ray," he exclaimed, "Come in. Look what I found ! It's pretty."

Inappropriate as it often was, 'pretty' was Joey's only word for things he liked. The object he was turning over in his hands was far from pretty. It was a lethal-looking hand-gun.

"Where did you find it, Joey ?," asked Doyle, moving slowly nearer. He couldn't be sure, but it did look as if the safety-catch was in the right place.

"I found it in the gardens," replied Joey.

This made sense. 'Gardens' was the boy's name for the grounds of the big house, adapted as a day centre, which Joey attended daily. The secure gate and the high stone walls surrounding it meant that the boys were allowed freedom to roam around the grounds, getting both fresh air and exercise. But the road outside the walls was in direct line from the murder scene, and a fleeing man could easily have tossed the weapon over the wall.

A smaller mystery was how Joey had managed to conceal it and smuggle it home, but he evidently had, and was now enjoying his find.

"You do know what it is, Joey ?," asked Doyle mildly.

"It's a gun," replied Joey instantly. "I've seen them on television."

"That's right," said Doyle. "And when you've seen them, what do they do ?"

"They go 'bang'," said Joey, pleased he could answer what Ray was asking.

"So they do," agreed Doyle, "But when they go 'bang', Joey, people get hurt."

Joey began to look doubtfully at the object in his hands, and Doyle persisted gently

"If it goes 'bang'," he said, "it might hurt someone. It might hurt you, or your father, or me. You wouldn't want it to hurt me, would you ?"

He was getting through to the confused boy. Joey suddenly stood up and threw the gun onto his bed.

"Not 'pretty', he said, "Nasty thing !," and hurried over to stand by his friend.

Doyle could sense his partner about to dash in, but stopped him with a restraining hand-signal behind his back.

"Good boy, Joey," he said. Then he changed the subject to distract the lad. "Have you done a nice picture this week, Joey ?."

Joey smiled gleefully, and dashed over to the desk in the other corner of the room, to rummage among the untidy pile of papers there.

Doyle meanwhile moved slowly over to the bed, hooked up the gun with one finger in the trigger-guard, and unhurriedly carried it back across the room, to drop it quickly into the large plastic bag that Inspector Ross was holding ready

"Great work," whispered Ross, and shot off down the stairs to deliver the offending article into the proper hands.

Doyle turned back to Joey, who had found what he was looking for, and proudly showed him a rather garishly coloured picture of a sailing-ship.

"That's very good, Joey," he said, and meant it, for although the colours used were pretty hideous, some of the detail was surprisingly accurate. Joey must have seen something somewhere that stuck in his limited memory.

"Pretty picture," said Joey proudly.

"Yes," agreed Doyle. "That is a pretty picture. Very clever, Joey."

Joey beamed with pleasure at this praise from someone who showed an interest in what he did.

Dan appeared in the doorway, his broad smile showing his gratitude for the way Doyle had saved what could have been a nasty situation. They all trooped down to the kitchen. Bodie and Doyle stopped only long enough to have a quick 'cuppa', and then accepted a lift in a squad-car back to their base.

They hurried up the stairs and tapped on their boss's door. Cowley greeted them with a scowl.

"About time, too," he complained, and then added, "I'll thank you, Doyle, to remember I didn't hire you as a social worker."

"No, sir," replied Doyle meekly, smiling inwardly. He didn't take offence at the words as he might once have done. He'd got used to his boss's dour manner.

Later in the day, Cowley got a message from Inspector Ross, expressing extreme gratitude for what Doyle had managed, and thanking Cowley for allowing him to do it. By carefully eliminating Joey's fingerprints, forensic had managed to get a partial print which confirmed the suspicion they already had. The man in question had temporarily 'gone to ground', but as soon as soon as he was located, they were sure they'd get a conviction.

Then Bodie and Doyle got on with the work that had suffered the delay.

They spent most of the next week doing shifts at a stake-out on one of the known residences of a man Cowley was particularly anxious to apprehend, for he was involved in several different criminal scenes. Although evidence was building up against him, he was becoming infinitely more elusive and difficult to pin down.

The stake-outs were tedious and singularly unproductive, as they often were. Cowley was on the point of deciding to call them off, and try a different approach, when they had a stroke of luck. Late one evening the man was spotted by Bodie, sneaking up to the door opposite, and going in.

He and Doyle immediately sprang into action. A back-up team was deployed to cover the back door, while the pair of them crept stealthily towards the front. On a given signal, they shot the lock out, and charged in.

The villain, caught completely off-guard, did not have time to draw his weapon before Bodie and Doyle were on to him. He made a feeble attempt to put up a fight, but the arrival of two more men from the back of the house quickly put an end to his resistance. He was arrested and carted off to the Interrogation Centre, where Cowley was very pleased to receive him. He handed him over to the experts, confident that with their special methods, the man would be persuaded to reveal a great deal of useful information.

Bodie and Doyle were sent to see about closing down the stake-outs that had been in operation all week. They were artful enough to assume the role of 'overseers', letting the junior men do all the work of clearing and carrying away equipment.

Nevertheless it was nearly breakfast-time before it was all dealt with, and they were free to go 'off-duty'.

Doyle was driving his partner back to his flat, when Bodie suddenly called on him to stop, because he'd spotted a McDonalds open.

Doyle made a bit of a protest, - not his scene.

"But I'm starving," declared Bodie, already climbing out of the car, and gazing across the road towards the source of the food he craved.

So Doyle watched his mate cross the road and enter the brightly-lit shop, joining the queue that had already formed.

He resigned himself to having to wait a bit, before he could go back to his flat, and make himself a more acceptable breakfast. He sat back in his set, idly watching as the busy street gradually came to life. Shop doors opened, blinds were run up, and stands and A-boards were moved outside and set in place.

He watched a big black Mercedes pull up outside the newsagents. A dignified elderly gentleman got out, locked the door, and walked slowly towards the shop.

"I wonder what paper he reads ?," Doyle thought idly, "The Times or The Guardian, I expect."

A trio of schoolboys walked by, teasing and jostling each other. They start early these days, he mused. When I was at school we didn't start till nine.

The elderly man came out of the newsagents, clutching a folded paper, and moved towards his car.

All of a sudden, something happened that shook Doyle out of his reverie.

As the man used his keys, and opened the car door, a couple of youngsters, a boy and a girl, appeared out of nowhere. The boy grabbed the keys from the surprised man's hand, and then hit him with such a heavy blow, that it sent the poor fellow sprawling in the road.

The boy was in the car in an instant. He opened the passenger door for the girl, and switched on the engine almost at the same time. The car came to life, and in less time than it takes to tell, went shooting off down the road.

Doyle's first human instinct was to jump out to help the fallen man. But he could see that several people were already running towards him.

So, instead, he followed his professional instinct, fired his engine and set off after the disappearing Mercedes.

The car ahead was weaving all over the road. It was a powerful car, and the youngster driving it seemed to be having a little difficulty in handling it smoothly.

It was a good job it was still early in the day, for the fleeing car posed a real danger to any pedestrians, or to other vehicles on the road. It was not properly under control, and so had become a lethal weapon in very un-trained hands !

Doyle winced several times as he saw the near misses that threatened to become disasters. He was having some difficulty in keeping up with the vehicle in front of him, for his driving was controlled by safety considerations, both for himself and for other road-users.

The end, when it came inevitably, was dramatic !

The big car took a bend badly, caught a wheel on a traffic island, swerved out of control, and slammed straight into a solid brick wall. After the sound of the impact, there was a moment's silence. Then all hell broke loose !

There was a huge explosion, followed by an almighty burst of flames, turning quickly into a blazing inferno !

Shaken, Doyle pulled his car safely to a halt, whipped out his radio-phone, and summoned the emergency services. His was the first call but there were many others, as people gathered at the scene, attracted by the noise which must have been heard for quite a distance.

Remembering his abandoned partner, he put in a call to Bodie, who was by this time standing on the pavement, his burger clutched in his hand, and wondering where on earth Doyle had disappeared to.

Doyle quickly told him all that had happened, where he'd gone and why, and also the unfortunate outcome. "I'll stay here till I've spoken to the police," he said. "Then I'll be back to pick you up. Is the old chap all right ?"

"He's being looked after," reported Bodie. "He's a bit shaken but not really hurt."

"Good," said Doyle, "But I'm afraid he's lost his nice car."

At that moment he spotted a police car pulling up. "I'll see you later," he said and rang off.

He got out of his car and walked over to speak to the senior police officer just getting out of the patrol car. He showed his I.D., and then explained exactly what he had seen.

"Did you know the lad who stole the car ?," asked the officer.

"No," replied Doyle, "But I could describe them both pretty well, I think."

He did this, and then agreed to be available to put his statement in writing if it was needed, as long as his name and identity weren't involved. The police inspector fully understood this proviso. He knew all about C.I.5 and its work.

"There will be an inquest, of course," he told Doyle.

Doyle returned to pick up Bodie. He dropped him at his flat and then went on to his own. Although he was sorry about the incident, he had seen or heard about similar things before, and so didn't let it prey on his mind. There was nothing he could have done anyway.

But he made a point of being into Headquarters a little earlier the next day, so that he could tell his boss about it before the daily police report landed on his desk.

"Another young idiot," was Cowley's disgusted comment. "Two young lives thrown away. What a waste ! They never learn."

At this point Bodie joined them, so he got his attention back to the business in hand. He picked up a sheet of paper from the desk

"This is a list of known associates of the man we picked up yesterday," he began, "I'd like to hear what you know of each one, so that I can decide whether any of them are worth going after next."

This took some while, but eventually the pair left with a short list of names, all of which merited further research. This kept them busy for a couple of days. On the second day, as they handed their reports to Cowley's secretary, for his attention later, he appeared in the doorway of his office.

"Oh, Doyle," he said, "I thought you might be interested to hear the latest on that stolen car incident. The driver has been identified as Colin Baxter, the lad we mentioned a few days ago."

"Bill Baxter's son ?," queried Doyle and his boss nodded.

"Yes," he said, "And the inquest is Tuesday next week."

Cowley was there at the inquest to support his man, who was required to attend. The Baxters were also there in force, Guy, Bill and Sam, sitting together on the other side of the room. Guy and Sam seemed quite calm but Bill was restless, scowling fiercely and darting venomous looks across the room.

The coroner was a distinguished sensible man. He read out excerpts from the various written statements he had before him, without identifying anyone. When he had finished this, he said he had no questions, beyond asking if anyone had anything further to add. No-one had, so he proceeded to his summing-up.

"It is clear to me," he began, "that this young man, Colin Baxter, having assaulted the owner, stole and made off with his vehicle.. It also seems evident that he had not sufficient skill to handle the vehicle correctly, which caused him to crash it, killing himself and his passenger, Mary Willis. Therefore I pronounce my verdict. 'Death by misadventure.'

This was what had been expected. The case was closed and people began to rise to leave.

As the C.I.5 men moved towards the exit, someone suddenly grabbed Doyle's arm and swung him round. It was Bill Baxter !

"You killed my boy !," he accused wildly. "You were chasing him. You made him crash."

"I did not," protested Doyle. "I was following him, but he was driving so wildly, I hadn't caught up. I was still some way back when he crashed."

By this time Cowley and Bodie had turned back to see what was going on. The two other Baxters had also come up and were trying to drag their irate brother away. Court officers had also come to intervene, separating the two groups.

Cowley hurried his men out as fast as he could. Such scenes were very bad publicity.

Baxter, too, was hustled away. But he was still yelling bitterly. "It was your fault. You killed him ! I'll get you, Doyle. Somehow I'll get you."

Doyle was a bit upset by this unfair accusation, made so publicly, and Bodie was highly indignant on his mate's behalf. Cowley took it more calmly. Threats against him and his men were not unusual.

"Just be careful, Doyle," he said. "And we'll have a close watch kept on him."

This was done and things seemed to be settling down. An agent the Baxters would not have recognized was in discreet attendance at the funeral, keeping well in the background, and reported that the oldest Baxter, Guy seemed to be having a strong influence, keeping very close to his brother, who behaved fairly calmly at the event.

Bodie kept a close eye on his partner, almost getting to the point of annoying him with his persistence. But after a week or so, things eased back to normal.

Reports on the Baxters said that work appeared to be going on as usual at the scrap yard, where both Guy and Bill Baxter were seen daily. It was reported that Bill Baxter had sold his house and had now moved in with Guy Baxter, his wife and his two daughters, and had been seen occasionally driving the girls to school. It appeared that he had settled into a changed life-style. So it seemed safe enough to ease up on the surveillance, which had kept agents busy who could have been more usefully employed elsewhere.

But a while later, something occurred which C.I.5 didn't hear about, and would not have attached any great significance to, if they had.

Guy Baxter had a heart attack and was rushed into hospital.

The family were duly worried and rallied round to look after his wife and the girls. But to one person, this event had a different significance. To Bill Baxter, it meant release from the controlling influence of his older brother, and freedom to do what he still hankered to do.

Bodie tapped on Cowley's door and entered. His boss was alone, reading through some of the ever constant pile of information on his desk. He looked up as his man entered.

"Doyle not with you ?," he asked.

"Isn't he in yet ?," replied Bodie, a bit surprised. "I rang him 20 minutes ago, and he was just on his way."

A sudden fear struck him. He whipped out his phone and activated it. No reply. Seeing his man's expression, Cowley dropped the paper he had been reading, and reached for his phone. He dialled Doyle's home number. But like Bodie, he got no reply there either.

"Find him, Bodie," he ordered brusquely. As Bodie, needing no second asking, charged out of the room, Cowley's fingers were already busy calling other numbers and galvanising men into action.

Bodie challenged the speed limit as he shot back towards his friend's flat. He didn't like what he found there. Doyle's car was standing in the yard, empty, with the passenger door wide open. With little expectation he rang the doorbell of the flat. Nothing.

Where should he go now ?

His first stop was the scrap-yard, but the big doors of that were closed, with the padlock still in place. He peered through the railings, but there wasn't the slightest sign of any activity.

He rang base to report, and got the address for Guy Baxter. He shot round there as fast as he could, only to be told by Guy's worried wife about his illness.

"Where's Bill Baxter ?," demanded Doyle.

"I don't know," she replied. "He was going to run the girls to school, I thought, but he went out early and hasn't come back yet. He's been behaving very oddly."

Where now ? What about Sam Baxter ?

Bodie knew where he lived, and got there very quickly. He ran up the path, and not stopping to wait for an answer to his knock, kicked in the front door of the little house and charged in.

Sam, who lived alone, had been sitting at his kitchen table, finishing his usual leisurely breakfast. Book-makers don't keep normal hours.

At the first sound, he had jumped up, and was making for the back door. But he didn't reach it before a hand grabbed him by the collar, heaved him back and pushed him down on the chair he'd just left.

He recognised Bodie, and the anger in the man's face sent shivers of fear through him.

"Your brother," shouted Bodie, "He's got Doyle, hasn't he ?. Where is he ?."

"How should I know ?," Sam tried to protest.

Bodie grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently.

"I bet you've a good idea," he snarled. "Do you want to be an accessory to murder ?."

Sam paled and quailed visibly. "I'd nothing to do with it," he whined.

"Where is he ?," demanded Bodie fiercely. "You'd better tell me."

"I'm not sure," admitted Sam, "but you know where he works."

"I've been there," snapped Bodie. "It's still all locked up."

"There's a back way in," said Sam, "Down Ford's lane. He is in there."

Remembering what Bill did where he worked, Bodie suddenly felt his blood run cold as he understood.

"Oh, no !," he exclaimed, and almost threw the cringing man down.

He dashed out of the house, and into his car, slamming the door and revving it mercilessly. He drove through the streets of London like a man possessed, as indeed he was – a man possessed by the desperate desire to save his mate, his best friend, from a horrible end.

He found Ford's lane and tore down it. It was an unmade road, and the pace he set was enough to strain every nut and bolt in his abused vehicle. He jolted round a bend and was met by wide-open gates. He swept into the breakers yard, his flying wheels sending up sprays of mud, and screeched to a halt beside the huge machine.

It was moving, an old grey car dangling from its steel jaws.!

Bodie knew, with absolute certainty, that Doyle was in that car !

He was out of his vehicle, in an instant, and climbing up to the driving-cab of the huge machine with ape-like skill and speed.

Bill Baxter saw him coming, and panicked. The car he was handling was in the right position, but too high up. In a desperate attempt not to be thwarted from his murderous plan, he pushed the release lever !

The grey car dropped with a sickening thud, but accurately, into the yawning pit below.

He reached for the other lever to start the crushing process, just as Bodie got up to the cab, and grappled with him. He pushed him off, and nearly threw him off the platform. But Bodie clutched firmly onto a stanchion, and launched another ferocious punch. He caught Baxter squarely, and with such force that the man gave a yell and toppled backwards out of the far side of the cab. He dropped down to the solid ground below, and lay still.

Furiously Bodie heaved on the levers, and to his great relief, the motion below stopped.

He climbed rapidly down again, and went round the machine. One look told him Bill Baxter wouldn't be bothering anyone again.

Quickly, he thumbed his radio-phone and called for help and back-up. He was surprised to find his hand was shaking as he did so, but he couldn't stop it.

Then he clambered up over the wrecked cars till he got to the edge of the crushing pit. The bonnet and the boot of the grey car had started to crumple but it looked as if the main chassis was still intact. The windscreen had shattered into tiny pieces and he couldn't see through it.

Dare he risk punching a hole in it, or would that injure his mate further ?

He decided that the tiny fragments of glass wouldn't do any harm. So starting at the passenger side he used the butt of his gun, and started knocking it in. He cleared it about halfway, and then was able to lean down and peer in.

Doyle, bound and gagged was lying along the front seats. He wasn't moving, his eyes were shut, and there was blood on his forehead.

Desperately wanting to do more, Bodie knew he had to wait for expert help. It came very quickly in actual fact, though to him the waiting seemed endless. A police car, a fire-engine and an ambulance swept into the muddy yard, and men came quickly from them all to assess the situation.

Bodie was asked to move back, so that they could get to work. Rather unsteadily, he climbed down, and went to lean on his car, fighting the re-action that had set in. He was trembling, and felt almost sick. Suddenly he was aware of a presence beside him, and a hand on his arm. It was Cowley.

"You did well, Bodie," he said, "They'll do the rest now."

Bodie nodded wordlessly. Then he made a real effort to pull himself together. "I killed Bill Baxter," he said, "He fell out of the cab."

"He's no loss," snapped Cowley, suddenly overwhelmed with horror as he realised what that evil man had intended for Doyle.

As they watched, the firemen were busy with cutting equipment and powerful jacks. They soon had all the windscreen remnants out, and were peeling back the roof of the car like opening a sardine-can.

A green-overalled medic lowered himself carefully into the space. He ran skilled hands over the inert form. He spoke briefly to his attending colleague, who shot off back to their vehicle.

Cowley and Bodie watched as a back-board was passed in, and the two medics worked to secure Doyle onto it. Then many hands helped to lift it out and carry it carefully to the waiting ambulance.

Bodie started as if to go to the vehicle, but Cowley put a detaining hand on his arm "Let them get on with their job," he said. "You're not fit to drive. Get in my car and we'll follow to the hospital. Give my driver your keys, and he'll bring your car after us."

When they reached the hospital, they were shown into a waiting-room, and they were told that the doctor would come shortly to give them an up-date. They did not have long to wait. In only a short while, Dr. Fenton, a personal friend of both Bodie and Doyle, came bustling in. He spoke to them in his usual cheerful manner.

"Stop fussing, Bodie," he admonished, "He's not badly hurt." He knew from experience how much this pair worried about each other.

"He hasn't come round yet," he continued. "He's got a lot of bruises, as if he's been in a fight, and a bang on the head, but I don't think that's serious. I do suspect a couple of cracked ribs, so I've sent him down to X-ray, but he won't be long. If you like to hang around for a bit you'll be able to check for yourself." He knew Bodie wouldn't be satisfied till he had seen his friend.

At this point Cowley's driver entered, restored Bodie's car-keys to him, and quietly relayed a message to Cowley, who nodded his understanding. Cowley turned to look at Bodie, and judging his man well, knew he had to let him stay to re-assure himself about his partner.

"I've got to go, Bodie," he said, "but you can stay and bring me a report later." He followed his driver out of the waiting-room.

Fenton turned to Bodie, and with his intuition as a doctor and a friend, assessed his mood. "Go and get a coffee, Bodie," he ordered, "By the time you get back he'll be up on the ward. We'll be keeping him over-night at least, because of the head injury, but he's O.K. really."

Half an hour later, Bodie was back. He met Fenton in the corridor.

"We had an emergency," the doctor explained, "so I haven't seen him again. But I heard him chatting to the nurse who's settling him in, and he sounds all right, so you can go in. Say you have my permission."

Bodie didn't need asking twice. He hurried to the ward he'd been told, and went in. His friend was in a bed at the far end, half-obscured by the dividing curtain. He was sitting up in the bed, his rib-cage swathed in supporting bandages, and with a white dressing just showing under his front curls, but he looked alert and cheerful. Bodie found himself a chair, brought it to the bedside, and drew the curtain a little further round to give them some privacy.

"Hi, how are you feeling ?," asked Bodie.

"A bit battered," his mate replied with a grin. "Bill Baxter plays rough. He floored me, ran my head against the wall. Is that how you found me, sprawled inelegantly on my own doorstep ?."

With a sudden shock, Bodie realised that Doyle didn't know what had happened to him, or how close he'd been to disaster.

For a moment he was tempted not to tell him. But too many people already knew the story. Cowley would take all steps to stop any outward publicity, but the agents who had been helping to search for Doyle would quickly have heard the news 'on the grapevine'. He didn't want him to get it from one of them. So he temporized a bit.

"How much do you remember ?," he queried.

"Well, you'd just rung, and I said I was on my way," began Doyle, "I'd just opened the car door, when Baxter jumped me. He's bigger and heavier than me, and he plays very mean. I was doing all right, though, until he tripped me and I was knocked out against the wall. That's all till I woke up here."

"I see," said Bodie thoughtfully. He felt a great surge of relief that at least Ray had been spared the nightmare of lying awake, aware of his situation, and helplessly awaiting his grisly end.

But now he had to spoil his happy ignorance. Slowly and carefully he explained all that had gone on, all the while anxiously watching for his friend's reaction.

Doyle's happy expression changed gradually as he listened. His eyes darkened and his colour faded, as he learned how very close he had come to a miserable end, and how well his mate had done, to save him in the very nick of time.

When Bodie had finished, Doyle leant back on his pillows with closed eyes. Bodie watched anxiously as different looks chased across the expressive face.

After a while, Doyle pushed himself upright and met Bodie's eyes.

Then, mouthing a silent 'thank you', he held out his hand towards his partner.

Responding quickly, Bodie closed his with it, and for a few trenchant moments, the firm clasp they exchanged bore evidence of their very special relationship.

Then sinking back onto his pillows, Doyle finally made comment. "Not a pretty picture, Bodie," he said quietly. "Not very pretty at all."

Then realising what a trauma his friend had had in saving him, he added, "We'll both have to try our very hardest to erase it from our minds, won't we ?."

"It'll take a few beers," replied Bodie, and was relieved to see just the flicker of a smile light his partner's face.

They'd get over this, as they always did, - together.


End file.
